


belly of the deepest love

by mysweetbologna



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst and Suffering, Idiots in Love, Longing, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:13:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26215432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysweetbologna/pseuds/mysweetbologna
Summary: Anders leaves the Grey Wardens and Nathaniel doesn't know how to say what he feels.In which Nathaniel pines for Anders over the course of the time spanning Awakening to the end of Dragon Age 2.
Relationships: Anders/Nathaniel Howe
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

Their goodbye is rushed, spoken in hushed whispers late at night inside the privacy of Nathaniel’s room. Nathaniel can only look at Anders for some reason, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of his friend’s face and that goofy, wide smile of his. The smiles are directed at the orange tabby Anders cradles in his arms, cooing at the cat in a babyish voice that normally grates on Nathaniel’s nerves. It still kind of does now, but there’s a rolling wave of fondness washing over it as Anders shoves his face in Ser Pounce-a-lot’s neck, murmuring something quiet that Nathaniel can’t make out.

“Promise me you’ll take care of him,” Anders demands in that way of his, demanding yet giving Nathaniel the chance to turn him down. In a normal situation, Nathaniel would shirk the duty of caring for Ser Pounce, but this isn’t a normal situation.

“So long as he doesn’t eat us out of house and home, fine.” Nathaniel eyes the tabby; he’s well aware of what the little beast is capable of when Anders isn’t looking. Anders thinks him innocent, but Nathaniel, and the other wardens at Vigil’s Keep, know the truth. Anders’ eyes light up with mirth and he sets Ser Pounce down one Nathaniel’s bed, who promptly turns circles and plops down right in the center of it with a satisfied meow. Nathaniel can only sigh.

“He’s a cat, not an ogre. Really, you’re ridiculous, Nate.” Nate. He likes it when Anders calls him by the nickname. There’s a familiarness to it, one that only Anders gives it when he speaks it, and it makes Nathaniel’s stomach feel heavy with stones, and his chest flutter with nerves. No one else dares to call him by anything but his title or his full name. “Make sure you keep your socks out of his way though, he does like to tear them to shreds if you aren’t careful.”

“I’m well aware, Anders.” He should say more, but he can’t find the words to express the profound sadness that Anders is leaving Ferelden, possibly for good. What Nathaniel should tell Anders, is that he dreads the day when he can’t remember what his laughter sounds like, or that he knows when he wakes up tomorrow, he will have forgotten for just a few seconds, only to be reminded by the new, gaping hole in his life. Anders would only say he’s being dramatic anyway, so there’s little use in spilling his guts for a friend he won’t see ever again.

Anders pouts at him; Nathaniel’s heart seizes for a half second before he quickly recovers. His friend is none the wiser and the pout dissolves into a more serious, forlorn look.

“Don’t worry too much, alright? I’m going to be fine, Nathaniel. I’m resourceful.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Oh.” Anders clears his throat and offers his hand, as if to shake. Nathaniel takes it, the mage’s hand warm and comfortable in his, but Anders surprises him by pulling him into a hug. Caught off guard, Nathaniel freezes, slowly melting into a very friendly hug between two friends. Anders’ breath is hot on his neck like he might start crying and Nathaniel hopes that he doesn’t.

Thankfully Anders doesn’t cry.

The hug ends and they’re left standing looking at each other, a hopeful expression in Anders eyes that Nathaniel just… cannot meet. He offers a tight smile instead, praying that it passes enough for someone who will miss their friend.

“Be safe, Anders. Don’t get into too much trouble, wherever you end up.”

“I’d write, but…”

“I know,” Nathaniel says. He does know. Whatever mission Anders has set himself on is far too important for Nathaniel to know the details of. To protect Anders and keep him safe, he doesn’t want to know anyway. “You better get going; the guard change is in a few minutes.”

“Goodbye, Nate. Thank you. For helping me. For being a true friend. I won’t forget you.”

Nathaniel bites the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything stupid with the way Anders is looking up at him now from under those red gold eyelashes of his. He hates the way Anders looks at him like that, like Nathaniel is the object of his affection, like he’s someone to be flirted with. He hates it and yet he craves it in this last minute together.

“Goodbye, Anders,” are his final words. Anders slips out of his room as quietly as he came, leaving Nathaniel alone with his thoughts and a purring Ser Pounce to keep him company. He doesn’t sleep that night, partially because Ser Pounce attacks his feet under the blankets every time he rolls over in bed, partially because Nathaniel doesn’t know who will replace Anders in training the mage recruits arriving tomorrow.

The answer is, no one. The recruits don’t arrive the next day as planned, likely delayed in Denerim, which makes it one less thing Nathaniel has to worry about as he sits down at his desk, formerly his father’s desk when Vigil’s Keep was the seat of the Arl of Amaranthine. It still feels peculiar to sit where his father once sat. He can remember the lectures clear as day, countless as they were, for Nathaniel dreamt not of power and following in his father’s footsteps, but of traveling the Ferelden countryside as a knight, and Rendon Howe wanted a son to take his place.

He’d once thought that the Wardens would be his chance at that freedom, but with the success of defending Vigil’s Keep from the architect and the Mother, Nathaniel earned himself a tidy little promotion to Warden-Constable.

Which effectively meant that he got to stay behind while the Hero of Ferelden and Warden-Commander, his sort of friend but mostly boss, got the long end of the stick. She left only two weeks after Vigil’s Keep was up and running, out into the world to chase down lingering darkspawn and meet up with old companions.

Anders had made it all bearable with his witty remarks and his pension for getting in and out of trouble. Trouble that he often dragged Nathaniel along with him for. At the time Nathaniel mistook it as strategy, that any trouble Anders might have caused would be negated by the fact that the straight laced Nathaniel Howe was at his side. He wasn’t sure where Anders got that idea, that he was infallible, bound by rules and laws and oaths anyway; he did break into his family home after all _and_ ended up imprisoned.

No, it was a mistake to think that Anders was using him for such strategic reasons. With Anders no longer in Vigil’s Keep, or even in Ferelden for that matter, Nathaniel reflects with a clearer mind. Anders perhaps enjoyed his company just as much as Nathaniel enjoyed his. They took their meals together nearly every day, walked the parapets of the keep to get away from the chaos of the Orlesians and Fereldens bickering day in and out, and often went into the city so Anders could get his favorite roasted and spiced nuts from a stall in the market.

The keep is unusually quiet in the days following Anders’ hasty exist from Vigil’s Keep and the silence follows Nathaniel around like a specter, looming and pressing in on the loneliness left behind. He acts like nothing has happened, keeping his same schedule, his same habits. Protecting Anders’ secret for as long as he can.

Sigrun questions him about Anders over breakfast two days after his departure. She pushes her porridge around with her spoon, sneaking glances at Nathaniel like he can’t see her. Velanna perks up only fractionally at the mention of Anders’ name.

“Are we all going to pretend like Anders isn’t missing,” Sigrun asks, setting her spoon down to fix Nathaniel with a proper look. He gives her a long suffering look, then takes another bite of his breakfast.

“It would seem that he has left Vigil’s Keep,” Nathaniel answers in as measured a tone as he can manage. He can’t give anything away, not even to Sigrun or Velanna, who is now glancing at him with a faint interest.

“Yes, but _where_ is he? Surely he told you where he’s going.” Nathaniel shrugs, much to Sigrun’s annoyance. “You’re being more tight lipped than usual. He really didn’t say anything to you?”

“The Chantry branded him an apostate, Sigrun. He couldn’t stay here,” he says with a look at his lumpy and cold porridge. “The Grey can only protect him so long as he is a Warden. And seeing as how he left the Order, it would only have been a matter of time before templars showed up to return him to the Circle.”

“He was still one of us, surely there was something that you could have done.”

“Don’t you think I would have,” Nathaniel fires back, more fierce and defensive than he intended it to sound, but it makes both Sigrun and Velanna sit up straight, noting the tone of his voice and the hard look in his eyes. “All we can do now is hope that wherever he’s going, that he remains safe and the templars don’t catch up to him.”

Sigrun grumbles quietly to herself, unsatisfied with his answer. He can’t tell if she believes him or not, though he supposes he doesn’t care all that much, because no one will be able to get the truth out of him if he doesn’t know it.

“It would have been nice to say goodbye.” Velanna’s voice is quiet over the din of the meal hall, the other Wardens and recruits chatting over their own bowls of cold porridge. Nathaniel pushes aside his bowl and gets up without saying anything to Velanna. He wishes he hadn’t had to say goodbye at all.

Rumors arrive nearly a week later of a sighting of Anders boarding a ship with a renowned pirate woman in Denerim. Nathaniel squashes the rumor as quickly as he can, paying the page three gold sovereigns to keep quiet about what he heard. When the door closes behind the page and Nathaniel is once again alone in his father’s office, he sighs, slumping in relief in his chair: Anders is safely out of Ferelden, on his way to somewhere far away and safe.

Regret boils in his belly.

He should have said more.


	2. Chapter 2

The sunlight burns Anders’ eyes during their tromp around the Sundermount in the middle of the day. Hawke asked him to accompany her on another quest of hers, claiming she might need his healing skills, but so far they’ve run into only one fight that Hawke and Aveline handle with little fanfare. He could be back at his clinic, helping more people until he’s dead or working to help the mages of Kirkwall. Justice grumbles as they pick their way through the rocky terrain, irritable and annoyed that Anders is taking a break from work to help the annoying woman, as it has dubbed Hawke.

He has made little progress on that front admittedly. Justice reminds him several times a day that he has strayed from their course. _You do little to help your mages by allowing this woman to lead you around. Have you forgotten your way?_ Of course Anders hasn’t forgotten. How could he, when the cries of his brothers and sisters can be felt with each visit to the Gallows, their anger and fear the same that Anders felt in Ferelden, but tenfold.

They failed to save Karl and the anger still twists in knots inside Anders. He struggles to keep it under wraps, to keep from exploding like he did at the Chantry when he had to putKarl down to free him from Tranquility. Justice used his anger against him, and it uses it even now, tugging at his mind and tearing him up inside to the tune of the suffering of other mages.

Only one person ever managed to quiet those feelings. But that person was far away, most likely having moved on already with his life. After all, neither of them made any promises to each other. Anders wonders if Nathaniel figured out the real reason he left Vigil’s Keep. Though, he supposes it doesn’t really matter now. It’s best to continue believing that Nathaniel still thinks as highly of him as possible.

“You’re awfully quiet today, Anders? Feeling alright?” Hawke’s voice is like a chime, melodic and sweet, shocking when she lays into people with that quick wit and dark humor of hers. Anders appreciates that about her. She relies on the same methods that he does to keep herself together, so they get on well enough.

“Peachy, Hawke. Contemplating whether I should pitch myself off the mountain and swim back to Kirkwall or not.” Her answering laugh earns her a grin that he can’t contain. Hawke is charming and beautiful and he doesn’t mind helping her all that much actually. “I thought there was going to be more danger than this.”

“Perhaps the stench of Darktown scared them off. When was the last time you took a bath?” Anders makes a show of sniffing himself and wincing, though he does reek of sweat, blood, and dirt. His stench is not nearly as bad as Oghren’s though.

“If you think this is bad, be glad you’ve never met a Warden I once knew. He smelled of piss and ale, along with all the other usual dirty smells. I couldn’t stand to be around him, even after his baths.”

Hawke’s nose scrunches up in a truly adorable way that reminds Anders of Nathaniel. It makes him ache in a funny, uncomfortable way that doesn’t sit well with him. Thinking of Nathaniel is like that though, in that he wishes Nathaniel had been brave enough to say something more than “stay safe” and “your cat better not eat my socks.” Maybe he was a fool for thinking that Nathaniel might begin to reciprocate any of the complicated and thus confusing feelings Anders felt.

“He sounds wretched and delightful,” Hawke retorts. Aveline snorts, followed by Carver’s own annoyed sigh, and they continue their way along the dusty Sundermount trail. No sooner do than they turn the next corner and trouble finds them, bandits waiting for them with Hawke’s name on their tongues. Keeping Hawke alive is a monumental task in of itself, and Anders feels a slight ping of guilt that he almost didn’t come out here with her.

Turns out, she was right.

His services are needed for the nasty slice on her side that she jokingly calls a scratch as Anders loses himself in the intense spirit magic. Hawke doesn’t react to the magic, not like she did the first time he healed her. She described it the last time he was knitting her skin and muscle back together as a faint, warm tingle in her toes, like sitting close to the fireplace. When the wound is healed, Anders sits back on his heels, his vision swimming as he tries to combat exhaustion.

“Well, I got what I came for, so I suppose we head back.” Hawke hauls herself to her feet and wipes the dust and grime off. The bandit blood on her face is a fitting accessory to the sharp grin she wears and Anders can’t help but shiver at the sight.

“Thank Andraste,” Carver mutters under his breath. Anders couldn’t agree more. Their trek back to Lowtown is quick and silent, peeling off in different directions. Hawke and Carver to the Hanged Man to have a drink with Varric, Aveline off to Hightown to report in on the bandits they ran into, and Anders, back to his clinic to sleep off the fighting.

_You continue to waste your time. When will we help the mages?_

Anders tries to ignore Justice; it makes his head fuzzy and he’s already tired and worn down. Justice refuses to be brushed aside though, its demands growing louder and more aggressive the closer to the clinic they get.

_We made a deal, Anders. Why do you spurn your duty to the mages? Do you not care for their plight?_

“Of _course_ I care!” Anders slams the door closed behind him, pressing his fingers to his temple as if that simple action will alleviate the pain and the annoyance that is Justice. “Things take time; I’m working on a plan.”

_The longer you take, the longer their abuse continues._

Anger bubbles, frothing in his belly. He tries to temper it, to keep from imploding and letting Justice take control of their shared body. Anders closes his eyes and remembers Nathaniel and that quiet smile of his when he thought no one was paying attention. He draws on the memories of trekking through the marsh together, their boots wet and soggy, the way Nathaniel suffered it in silence while Anders complained with every step.

_You cannot ignore me, Anders._

Anders pinches the bridge of his nose and takes ten deep breaths, thinking of Nathaniel, of Ser Pounce-a-lot, Sigrun and Velanna, even Oghren. When Justice inhabited the body of that soldier, before Anders’ anger warped the spirit into a demon of Vengeance.

It works, and Justice settles down into the bowels of Anders’ mind once more. He can still feel Justice at the back of his mind like the low buzz of lyrium as it starts to wear off. Anders curls up on the tiny bed shoved into one of the corners of the clinic and closes his eyes. Thankfully he doesn’t dream that night.

~~~

Somehow they manage to make it out of the Deep Roads.

After everything that happened, rescuing Sandal, the rock wraiths, Hawke’s brother… it must have been divine luck that got them out of there in one piece. Well, almost all of them.

Hawke disappears for a few weeks after their return to the surface. She doesn’t come by the clinic, nor the Hanged Man where the rest of them now gather most nights for a few rounds of Wicked Grace and tankards of ale. Varric says it’s because she’s busy getting her family set up in that fancy Hightown house of theirs, but Anders thinks otherwise.

It’s a month before any of them see her again, when she comes traipsing into the Hanged Man with that familiar feline grin of hers and that cocky sway in her step. Her hair is longer than before, tied back with a piece of leather cord rather than swinging roguishly in her face. The rest of them are all gathered, except Aveline who has night duty. At Hawke’s arrival, Isabela jumps out of her chair and throws her arms around Hawke, kissing all over her face and teasing the woman with equally as sly looks.

They’re all happy to see Hawke again after the drought of her absence, Anders included. She sits down at the long table with them, Isabela passing her a drink and clapping her on the back. Varric immediately launches into some dramatic story of his, overly embellished but nevertheless entertaining. It reminds Anders of the ridiculous tales he used to tell over campfires with his friends in Ferelden, tales of his time at the Circle and his multiple escapes, of the trouble he got into as a child. He would make them as silly and over dramatic as possible to try and get Nathaniel to laugh, but at most, the man would merely crack a smile.

Their table is a riot of laughter and shouting, Isabela and Hawke going back and forth, Fenris chuckling to himself and Merrill leaning over to ask Varric what Isabela’s jokes mean. Anders absorbs it all, but there’s a visible hole in their group. Hawke keeps glancing to the chair Carver used to sit in, where he would brood alongside Fenris before picking a harmless fight with Hawke. Anders tries to avoid looking at the chair, at the empty place in Hawke’s life.

He can’t help the guilt.

None of what happened in the Deep Roads was remotely Anders’ fault, and yet, maybe if he had been paying better attention or just a little bit faster, the darkspawn wouldn’t have infected Carver. Then Carver would be sitting across from them, still brooding and hiding in Hawke’s shadow. Thanks to the Warden they bumped into in the Deep Roads, Carver lives. Becoming a Warden only delays the taint, but at least he lives. For now.

There is a special kind of pain in knowing that death will come eventually, that drinking the blood of the very creature that usually lays waste to people in days, shortens Wardens lives by decades. Anders knows his day will soon come. He will hear the Calling along with the other Wardens and he will return to the Deep Roads to face his death.

Or he would, if he was still a Warden. Maybe he’ll let the Calling drive him mad. Time will tell.

And with time, Varric finds his way back upstairs to his rooms. Isabela and Fenris walk Merrill home after she drank a bit too much, leaving Hawke and Anders sitting at opposite ends of the table, nursing their drinks. Hawke smirks at him before ambling down to his end, sitting directly across from him.

“You look tired,” she says after a long pull from her ale. “Are you sleeping?”

“Haven’t you heard? Bags under your eyes is the new look.” Anders looks down at his drink, Hawke’s amused laugh swimming in his ears. He hasn’t been sleeping any less than usual, though perhaps it was starting to take its toll on him. “How’s life up in Hightown? You’re looking awfully clean today.”

She scoffs. “Mother insists on these ridiculous clothes with the family crest on them.” Thin fingers pluck at the Amell family crest emblazoned on her chest. Anders doesn’t miss the roll of her eyes. “The house is nice now that it’s cleaned up. Gamlen won’t leave, and Mother doesn’t have the heart to kick him out despite everything he did. You should come by and visit sometime. The library is massive, might find something useful for your cause.”

His cause. As if it shouldn’t also be hers. Both apostates and yet she will never fully understand his fury, his need to right things in Kirkwall. In the world. Anders doesn’t blame her though, she lived her whole life on a farm in Lothering, hiding her magic from templars. He never got that option. He won’t bother her about it now though, not when she’s still grieving. There are creases between her brows that weren’t there before and her shoulders look like they carry a much heavier burden than just a month ago.

“The Wardens will take care of your brother, Hawke.” Her bravado disappears, replaced with the tired and softer Hawke lurking beneath the surface. “He’s smart, strong. If anything, he’ll annoy them to death.”

She chokes out a laugh, then says, “I miss him, in spite of how much he seemed to hate me. I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting him to be there glaring at me or about to say some stupid, witty remark. But he isn’t here anymore. It’s like he’s dead.

“At least, that’s how Mother treats it. And you know she blames me for it. ‘You should have left him here, or taken better care of him’ or whatever else she has said over the last few weeks.” Hawke sighs and looks up at him, her cerulean eyes misty.

“What happened wasn’t your fault, Marian. You shouldn’t shoulder that blame.”

“I should have made him stay here.”

“And he would have been furious with you for that,” Anders rebuts.

“Yes, but he would be here, rather than roaming the Deep Roads with strangers who don’t even know him. They don’t know that he likes warm milk at night, that he kissed my mother on the cheek every time he left the house. They don’t know about Bethany or about our father or any of the other things we’ve been through.”

“He isn’t alone in the Order. I was a Warden. It… has a way of bringing people together in unexpected ways. I had friends, people that were like family to me.” Hawke’s curiosity outweighs her grief in that moment.

“You never talk about your time in Ferelden.”

“Most of it wasn’t exactly pleasant,” he says quietly.

“Still, I’d like to hear about it.” So he tells her, about the Circle and his final escape that put him in the path of the Hero of Ferelden, about Sigrun and Velanna and Oghren and their stupid jokes, their nights of camping. He even tells her about Karl and how he charmed the older boy when they were students by following him everywhere and annoying him until Karl kissed him quiet in a darkened corner of the library.

Hawke smiles, laughing sweetly to herself. “Sounds like you were quite the charmer.”

“Hey now, I’m still charming! I’m just a little out of practice is all.” _Or there’s no one here to hold my attention like he did._ Anders pushes aside his empty drink and leans back in his chair. Hawke’s eyes are on him, that all too familiar fire burning behind them.

“You’ve done well enough charming me.” She’s flirting, he knew she would flirt, but it still surprises Anders to hear her do it. She has more tact than Nathaniel ever did, which makes the situation feel all wrong and out of place. But mostly it makes the sting of loneliness sharper when he swallows the longing for what might have been.

As if Nathaniel would ever come to his senses and make a move.

“Perhaps I’ve done too well,” he finally replies. Hawke pouts, her lower lip sticking out in that dramatic way of hers. “I… I appreciate it, Hawke. But I can’t. Not with anyone.”

“Because of Karl?”

“Because of Karl, because I’m not right for someone like you. I have to focus on why I’m here and romantic entanglements, they’ll distract me.”

Hawke is a strong woman and handles rejection gracefully. “Well, I tried. Friends?”

She holds her hand out to shake, like he did over a year ago with Nathaniel, and the aching grows stronger. But he shakes her hand and repeats it back to her because that’s what friends do, and he could really use more friends like Hawke.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In true fashion, I've made a playlist. 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6hz8S1AdjfnojXB1tU9ZqT?si=gfq1j1HnR9ijl5uUJLRARA

Ser Pounce-a-lot kneads Nathaniel’s chest every morning when he deems it time for the Warden to wake up. This has been their routine for three years now. At first, Nathaniel tried to keep the tabby out of his bed, but the task proved futile, just like it had been futile to try and convince Anders to do anything he didn’t want to do. His bedsheets are covered in orange fur that makes him sneeze, and from time to time Ser Pounce will leave a mouse as a present under his pillow.

There’s no kneading this morning though, only the sounds of his fellow Wardens getting the campfire breakfast ready while the sun creeps up over the horizon. The ground is cold and hard under his bed roll and his back aches when he sits up, stretching his arms above his head. Velanna glances at him over the small campfire. He goes about getting ready, missing the company of the orange tabby in his bed and the promise of a warm breakfast.

They’ve still got a few weeks of travel left; the journey from Vigil’s Keep to the Deep Roads entrance in Orzammar is long and arduous, spent mostly on foot except when they can afford to borrow horses. Though most farmers are hard pressed to give up their horses for a band of traveling Wardens. The likelihood of their return is… slim.

The life expectancy of any person or creature involved with a Warden is automatically shortened in Nathaniel’s experience. A prime example was Loghain, his life cut short after his betrayal to the last king and to the wardens. Pets live shorter lives, friends die or disappear, lovers leave. Being a warden is a lonely profession, even surrounded by his own kind. He can only make so many jokes about their shortened lives and their duty to protect Ferelden from the darkspawn before Nathaniel starts to feel a little dead inside. Nathaniel chuckles humorlessly when the thought crosses his mind; he never used to be this obsessed with the thought of dying.

They’re on the road just as the mist starts to rise from the ground like steam, covering the hilly landscape in a wistful, almost romantic, cloud of dew. There is only the shuffling of feet, Oghren muttering beneath his breath, and the clanging of a frying pan to keep them company as they trek along the North Road.

What landscape is Anders looking at this morning? Are there mountains and rivers? City streets and street vendors, already clamoring for sales? Nathaniel regularly finds himself wonder what Anders is up to, wherever he might be. If he’s save and healthy, or if he found trouble across the Waking Sea. The latter seems more likely, considering Anders’s innate ability to find it wherever he goes. Nathaniel hopes someone is there to watch over him, to keep him out of the worst of things, to shelter him when he gets in over his head. Is there someone reminding him to eat and sleep like Nathaniel once did?

He hopes that Anders isn’t alone at the very least. And that perhaps, despite the state of the world, Anders maybe found someone that makes him happy like Karl did. Nathaniel won’t let his lingering feelings interfere, won’t let jealousy claw at his throat over the fictional people he creates in his head, taking his place in Anders’s arms. Are they open with their affection, in ways Nathaniel dreamt of, but never had the courage for? Do they kiss him quiet when he makes those sly, stupid jokes of his, the way Nathaniel always wanted to? Is there someone to tuck his hair out of his eyes, since Nathaniel had to stop himself from doing it countless times?

The thought of Anders with someone else is shaken from his mind when his toe catches in a cracked stone in the road and he stumbles. Velanna, who walks beside him, stabilizes him with a hand on his shoulder. She’s too observant, too quick to notice when he’s bothered by something. Nathaniel gives her a small nod, indicating that he’s fine. They walk for another mile or so before her subdued voice comes from his side, “What’s on your mind?”

He shakes his head, imperceptible to the others they travel with, but not to Velanna. She arches a thin eyebrow and he knows he’s caught. Nathaniel shades his eyes with his hand, peering out over the road still ahead of them, noting the distance that still remains. With a sideways glance at Velanna, he answers, “Thinking about old friends.”

“He’s smart; I’m sure he’s doing just fine.”

“Who- oh. You mean Anders.” Nathaniel’s attempt to pass off the object of his attention as someone else is… weak. Thankfully Velanna has enough grace to merely look at him like he’s an idiot. “He _is_ smart, but I still… worry.”

“That’s a natural thing to do, especially with someone as prone to trouble as Anders is.” Nathaniel huffs out a small laugh; she’s only reiterating the same thoughts he has already had this morning and nearly every day for the last three years. “You two were always close, maybe he learned a thing or two.”

He scrunches up his nose. Velanna usually leads the ring with the jokes on dying, her quick witted, almost too fast to catch replies earning her more than one smile from Nathaniel. Her quiet, dark humor inspired an unofficial motto about wardens and their fascination with death. “Where’s this newfound optimism coming from?”

“Someone has to maintain faith,” she answers, shoving him to the side with a careful elbow to his side. He retaliates with a flicking gesture to her nose, and they continue walking. “I don’t know, everything seems so hopeless all the time. We train, we go to the Deep Roads to kill darkspawn, we train some more. If there’s anything to be optimistic about, I suppose it would be our friends surviving out in the world without us.”

“I-“ he starts, picking his words carefully, maybe even too carefully from the look Velanna is giving him. “He was a good friend of mine, during everything. I miss him, if only because he’d take care of Ser Pounce instead of me.”

“And for no other reasons? None at all?”

“Velanna…”

“Nathaniel,” she mocks, her tone dramatic and whining.

“I don’t sound like that,” Nathaniel objects, readjusting his pack on his shoulders. “Though perhaps I’m too quick to dismiss the… nature of our relationship.”

It feels like choking, this tiny admission.

“What exactly was the nature of your relationship with Anders,” she prompts, encouraging him to keep going. She’ll kept it safe, keep it secret. That’s the nice thing about Velanna: she listens and actually keeps the things she hears to herself. Nathaniel wonders what else she has heard, but it would take torture to get anything out of her.

“It’s complicated,” he finally answers. “Besides, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? He left three years ago and I have no idea where to find him.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t still lo-“

“Stop,” Nathaniel demands with a harsh growl. Again, Velanna has the grace to look at him like he’s an idiot, but her disappointment weighs heavy like a shroud. They walk for hours, breaking at midday for a lunch Nathaniel hunts down for them, and again at night, to set up camp. He offers Velanna a leg from the pheasant they roasted for dinner. She smiles, small and forgiving, accepting his apology.

~~~

The stench of darkspawn blood is thick, coating the inside of his nose and lungs with its sickly sweet scent. Of all the things that come with being a Grey Warden, this is the one thing Nathaniel will never get used to. He wipes gore from his face with the back of his bare hand, looking over his compatriots to make sure they’re all still standing. Oghren leans against his hammer, taking a long sip from his waterskin. Velanna is ordering the other, younger wardens around, directing them to clean up some of the mess. Nathaniel steps forward to help, hoisting up one of the beheaded darkspawn by its armpits and dragging it to the pile the others have started building. It’s long, grueling work, that sick, sweet scent making Nathaniel’s head hurt like the time he and Anders tried to outdrink Oghren.

Nathaniel laughs to himself as he heaves the darkspawn body into the pile, then freezes. Heavy footfall and clanking armor echoes further down the tunnel. Velanna’s ears twitch in the direction of the sound, her hand tightening around her staff. Nathaniel unslings his bow, pulling an arrow out of a dead darkspawn, and aims loosely down the tunnel.

Flames come into sight: torches crackling in the distance, drawing closer and closer. Nathaniel raises his bow, lining his arrow up with the approaching target. His breathing slows as he concentrates, clearing his mind of the darkspawn blood, the weight of his armor, the gore dripping off of his vambrace.

“Well met,” a voice calls out. Orlesian, deep, and weary. Nathaniel lowers his bow a fraction, just as the others in his party loosen their stances in anticipation. Someone human is less likely a threat, Nathaniel tells himself. As the target comes closer, Nathaniel finally makes out not one, but two men walking toward them. One is younger, taller, with a dark head of tousled hair and a sharp look in his eyes. The second raises his hand in greeting, lips and mustache twitching in a grin. “Seems you caught our quarry before we did.”

Nathaniel drops his bow to his side and nods. “We’ve been tracking them for a few days now, from the Aeducan Thaig.”

“Ah, we’ve come from opposite directions then.” The Orlesian man steps forward, his hand over his chest as he bows before Nathaniel. “I am called Stroud.”

Nathaniel notes the griffon emblazoned across the chest plate of his armor and nods, extending Stroud the same half bow. Stroud’s partner crosses his arms, lips pursed. “Nathaniel. Warden-Constable over Ferelden.”

Stroud’s eyes flash in recognition. “I heard about what happened to your family; I’m… sorry to hear of your losses. I did not realize that you joined the Order. I’m afraid Ferelden news rarely makes it to me in the Free Marches.”

Nathaniel relaxes, and the other wardens resume their work of building the pile of darkspawn bodies. He watches, along with Stroud and his partner, who still stands silent as the stone golems they’ve come across in the thaigs.

“It is no real loss,” Nathaniel assures the Orlesian warden. He listens as Stroud explains that he rarely visits Orlais, or Ferelden for that matter, preferring to roam the Free Marches in search of recruits. But that his partner insisted on returning to Orlais for some private reason. Stroud’s partner is just a boy really, his face bare of a man’s stubble, but the way he carries himself convinces Nathaniel that he might be older than expected. Nathaniel can relate. “What’s your name, Ferelden?”

He sniffs at the epithet, but finally speaks. “Carver. Carver Hawke.”

Nathaniel searches his own mind for that name, but comes up short. Lacking. “And where do you come from, Carver Hawke?”

“Originally? Lothering. Recently, Kirkwall. My family fled Lothering during the blight.” His blue eyes look dark in the firelight, impossible to read. Nathaniel nods, resting his hands on his hips. “Stroud rescued me from dying of the taint.”

“I did not realize that the darkspawn were attacking Kirkwall,” Nathaniel says more to himself than to Carver, looking over at Velanna. She shrugs; it’s news to her as well. If there were a darkspawn problem in the Free Marches, surely they would have heard about it.

“They aren’t… not anymore at least,” Stroud explains. “I came across Carver, his sister, and a few of their friends during an expedition of theirs a few years back. They asked me to take Carver with me, to see if the Joining might save him from an early death.”

“I still don’t see why the other Warden couldn’t do it.” Stroud sighs; it’s obviously a well-discussed topic between the pair.

“He wasn’t a Warden. Not anymore, or at least, that’s what he claimed.”

Nathaniel blinks. Looks at Velanna, who is most definitely thinking the same thing he is, if the look on her face is any evidence. He clears his throat, forcing away the need to know more in an effort to protect a man who may or may not be Anders.

“You’re fortunate to have someone willing to do so, it sounds like.” Carver looks like he might sneer at Nathaniel, but holds back, tempering the flare of annoyance and instead nodding amicably.

Stroud and Carver decide to join them for a few days, roaming the Deep Roads, slaughtering any Darkspawn they come across as they make their way to the Anvil. They part ways there, Stroud claiming they’ve spent enough time south of the Waking Sea, and it’s time for them to return home. Nathaniel almost pulls Carver aside, tempted to ask him about the man who isn’t a warden, just to see if it is indeed Anders. His promise to protect ultimately outweighs his need to find out more, and so Nathaniel lets them go without question, watching their backs as they disappear down a dark tunnel.

Velanna squeezes his arm later when they break for the night, settling in a circle with their bed rolls. Nathaniel’s appreciative grunt is enough to turn her away, and he rolls up in his bed roll, squeezing his eyes shut.

He dreams of death.


	4. Chapter 4

Anders crouches behind crates and barrels, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to calm himself. Dirt and dust falls from the wooden ceiling like rain, coating his shoulders, his hair. A loud voice barks out a command to keep searching, and a hand tightens around Anders’s arm. He opens his eyes and slides his gaze down to the small woman at his side, her eyes wide with fear, her whole body trembling. Something crashes above them and the Anders clamps his hand down over the woman’s mouth before she can make a sound.

They’ve been hiding in the sub level of this abandoned house for what feels like hours by this point, though Anders knows it has only been minutes. This house is their last stop before they head to the docks where a small frigate waits for the rest of its cargo: five mages to be smuggled out of Kirkwall. But the heavy footfall of templars above them pins Anders and his charges, making it impossible to leave. Another pair of eyes peer at him from around a crate, glowing in the dark of the sub level room. Anders waves at them, signaling them to move back behind the crate, and to wait.

This was supposed to go smoothly; the templars have been distracted lately, helping the city guard with the riots and the growing tension with the Qunari. They weren’t supposed to be in this part of Lowtown, and yet…

Anders stifles the thought of betrayal. Only Marian knows what he does in his spare time, though she won’t endanger what remains of her family by helping him herself. Her silence is enough, it has to be. He bites the inside of his cheek, offering a silent prayer to a deity he doesn’t believe in.

The dust settles after a few more minutes, the mages letting out a collective sigh of relief as the templars retreat and silence settles like a grave above them. Anders gives the others a moment for posterity, thankful that this basement didn’t become a grave in reality. One by one, the mages he’s escorting come out of hiding, grouping up around Anders with those same fearful expressions on their faces. Exhaustion wears on Anders, but Justice continues to fuel him, turning the anger into boundless energy, even if it does nothing for Anders’ mental state.

He wipes his eyes like he’s trying to get a fresh view, then encourages quietly, “We’re almost there.” Almost to the docks, almost to freedom. He won’t rest until all the Kirkwall mages are free of the Circle’s oppressive regime, free to roam the world, to make their own decisions. Free to live.

They creep from one building to another, hiding when a city guard walks by on their predetermined route, lingering in the shadows until the guard passes and they can resume their path through the crumbling, lower parts of Lowtown. It’s nearly dawn when they arrive at the docks, the ship captain impatiently tapping his foot, his arms crossed over his chest.

“You’re late, healer.”

Anders brushes it off. “We ran into a few snags, but we’re here now.”

“These are them?” The captain gestures at the mages huddled behind Anders, in their plainclothes and without staves. They look ordinary, like any other poor Ferelden that made the crossing to Kirkwall during the Blight. Anders turns to face the small group to address them.

“The captain’s ship will take you to his first port. From there, you’re on your own. Free to go wherever you want. I’d recommend keeping a low profile for awhile, until you’re familiar with your surroundings. After that… well that’s up to you.”

One of the mages, the small woman who clutched his arm tight earlier, comes up and wraps her arms around his midsection in a hug. The hug catches him by surprise; he barely knows her, or the others for that matter. Anders doesn’t even know their names, to protect them and himself.

“Thank you, for helping us,” she whispers against his chest. Tears bead at the corners of her eyes when she looks up at him. The four other mages, elven and human alike, surround Anders and the woman, and the hug turns into a group embrace. Justice purrs with approval, a tickle in the back of Anders’ throat. Like a cold announcing its arrival.

Anders clears his throat and pats the woman’s back. They separate, Anders and the mages, and he gives them one last farewell, short, sweet, and to the point. He hopes he never sees them again, not in Kirkwall at least. The ship captain ushers them over to board the ship, directing them to the bowels of the ship. Anders doesn’t linger, instead turning back the way he came, toward his clinic in Darktown, toward bed.

_You’re doing well, Anders. But it is not enough._

It’s never enough, not for Justice. He’s losing control over the spirit piece by piece, and Anders worries that soon he will no longer exist, and it will only be Justice, just like the last body the spirit inhabited. How much time does he have left until his body is a shell for the warped spirit?

“I’m doing everything I can, you know that,” Anders mutters to himself. Thankfully it’s still too early for most of Lowtown’s inhabitants to start their day, and only a few people see him talking to himself. “My manifesto is complete and I’ve spread it across the city, I help people escape through the underground, what do you want from me? What more of myself can I give to appease you?”

_You know what must be done._

Anders stops and leans heavily against the wall of someone’s home, shaking his head. “It’s not ready yet. If I do it now, it won’t- the impact won’t be the same. There’s too much going on right now, with the Qunari tension on the rise…”

_You are a coward. Perhaps I was mistaken, choosing you as my host. It was you who told me of the mages’ plight and what have you accomplished in our years together?_

“I’ve accomplished plenty. I’m helping mages escape the city-“ He feels the chains hold Justice in place start to shift and creak; he beats his fist against the dusty stone wall holding him and squeezes his eyes shut again, concentrating on maintaining control. But his anger is boiling, rising from the ever present simmer. “I _will_ obeyed.”

Justice laughs, and answers, _You mortals are all the same. Making demands of beings you have no control over._

Anders shivers, the chains settle back into place. He wishes, not for the first time, nor the last, that Nathaniel was with him. That ship sailed though, when he crossed the Waking Sea with Isabela, never likely to return. Oh, how he wishes Nathaniel would have kissed him goodbye.

~~~

He doesn’t hear Marian enter the clinic; he’s too busy throwing a vase of medicine at the wall, watching the ceramic shatter into thousands of tiny pieces over the dirt floor. The table for his patients lies in splintered pieces as well, strewn about the clinic throughout the course of his fit of anger. He lost control of Justice and the resulting massacre… wasn’t pretty.

Their blood is still on his hands, the templars he killed under Justice’s influence. Of course he remembers every detail, watching it happen through his own eyes, even as Justice seized control of his body and fired off the spells that brought the templars to their untimely deaths. He should feel guilty for killing so many, but instead he feels like a void of swirling anger, sucking in anything and everything and twisting it.

The clinic is nearly destroyed when Marian calls out his name, quiet, patient. All the things Anders doesn’t deserve. He knows what is waiting for him when he decides to look at her and it’s more of that damning patience that makes him sick. It reminds Anders too much of Nathaniel and his quiet, reserved looks that held far more meaning than should have been possible.

“You shouldn’t be here, Hawke.” Anders pinches the bridge of his nose, a move he finds himself doing more frequently than he realized. His head aches, but the small action does little to relieve the tension. “It isn’t safe. I- I’m a monster. Justice- me- you aren’t safe around me anymore Hawke. You should leave. Now.”

Marian, the stubborn woman she is, shakes her head no. “I’m not going anywhere, not when you need me.”

Anders scowls at her. How dare she assume he needed her, or anyone for that matter. Not even- No. He won’t go down that path right now, not when he’s barely holding onto Justice, who continues to twist and pull at his fragile state. “I don’t need anyone.”

“Oh? Is destroying a room a normal thing people do nowadays? I must have missed the memo,” she chirps, bending over to pick up a stool that is still intact. She helps it upright and pats the seat, her mystifying, mirthful eyes watching him. Following his pacing like he’s a caged animal prepared to strike. Which, Anders supposes he is, with how little leverage he has over his own emotions right now. “I know you’re scared, Anders. Let me help you.”

“How? How do you plan on helping me, Hawke? You won’t help our brethren when they need you most. You’ve grown too comfortable in Hightown, _Champion._ ” Anders regrets the accusation the second he blurts it out, the anticipation of her reaction stinging already in his throat. Marian purses her lips together. “Marian, I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that-“

“I know.”

Anders sighs and slumps against the wall behind him finally, exhaustion taking root after the long hours in the tunnels beneath the city and the hangover-like symptoms from Justice taking over. He cradles his head in his hands, guilt and grief thundering through him like charging thoroughbreds. How could he live with himself gif he hadn’t somehow gained control over Justice and-

“I almost killed that girl,” he says after several long minutes of silence. Marian’s boots scuff against the dirt floor and soon she’s sliding down the wall to sit next to him. Her thigh touches his, and at first Anders thinks it another attempt to seduce him, but he remembers her moony looks when Fenris isn’t looking, and shoves the thought aside.

“But you didn’t. You saved her life.”

“I’m tired, Hawke,” he says.

“You can come stay at the house if you want. We have the room.” Marian nudges him with her shoulder. Her kindness overwhelms him amidst all the other awful things he’s feeling right now. How can he accept her offer when he can’t trust himself to keep it together? How can _she_ trust him?

“I- that’s a nice offer, Hawke. But I doubt Fenris would like that, and besides, I loathe Hightown.” It’s a weak excuse if ever he has heard one, weak to Marian’s ears as well, but her breathless laugh tells him she accepts it. _Like Nathaniel._

“Then you won’t mind if I stay here with you for a bit, do you?”

“So long as you don’t mind my horrible mood, you can stay.” Anders finally looks up, Marian’s smile a small comfort against the darkness. They sit in a companionable silence, until Marian pats his knee and heaves herself to her feet. She wishes him a soft good night, and once more, Anders is alone.

Marian returns in the morning, while Anders is setting out a bowl of fresh milk. She cocks her head to the side, a question on her tongue that Anders answers before she can ask. “It’s for the cats.At least… I hope there are cats still around. The refugees scared them of. Or ate them.”

“Didn’t you used to have a cat? Ser… what was-“

“Ser Pounce-a-lot. He was a magnificent creature. I had to leave him behind; a friend of mine is taking care of him.” Anders sighs, thinking of his beautiful tabby back at Vigil’s Keep. He knows without a doubt that Nathaniel is taking the best care of Ser Pounce; he’s reliable like that.

“I didn’t know you had other friends,” Marian teases. He’s in a good mood and laughs at her gentle prodding.

“I did, when I was still a Warden. I’ve told you about some of them before, Sigrun and Velanna. And Oghren. But Nathaniel, he’s the one watching over Ser Pounce. He’s the only one I would trust with such a monumental task.”

“Hm… he must be very special if you’d trust him with your cat.”

 _Special indeed,_ Anders thinks. When he doesn’t say anything else, Marian drags a stool over and sits by the open door, watching. He arches an eyebrow at Marian, curious, but not quite finding the words to ask.

“Well, I’ve no plans for the day. Shall we wait and see if any cats show up,” she asks, gesturing toward the bowl of milk. “And maybe you can tell me more about the wardens, about this _Nathaniel.”_

Anders rolls his eyes, but can’t keep the grin off of his face. “It’s not like _that_.”

“Pft. Something tells me that you’re full of shit.”

Anders laughs, and for now, he feels hopeful.


	5. Chapter 5

They attacked at night, or what Nathaniel assumes was night. He and the rest of the Wardens sent across the Waking Sea to investigate the Deep Roads were set upon by a wave of darkspawn that seemed like it would never end. He can’t remember the exact moment when he became separated from the rest of the Wardens- some point between slicing the head off a particularly nasty genlock and running from their ruined campsite.

One minute he and the other Wardens were sitting around the fire, digging into their provisions purchased that morning in the Kirkwall marketplace. The next, everything turned into chaos. Darkspawn poured from tunnels and abandoned structures in the empty thaig, weapons clamoring. How the they didn’t sense the darkspawn, Nathaniel can’t be sure, but there was no time to deliberate as he drew his bow and fired an arrow into the throat of a hungry looking darkspawn before it took a swipe at him.

The Wardens fought for as long as they could, but the darkspawn kept coming, an endless sea of glittering black eyes and bloodthirsty cries. Someone gave the call to run; it wasn’t their time to die, not yet. It should have felt wrong, running from the darkspawn. Didn’t it go against everything the Grey Wardens stood for? In death, sacrifice? Apparently none of them felt like sacrificing themselves just yet.

Nathaniel lost the others shortly after they abandoned camp and he took a fallen Warden’s sword and chopped off the genlock’s head. He sprinted down the narrower passages, bow at the ready just in case, turning left, then right, trying to remember the path the wardens ahead of him took, and failing.

The passage emptied out into an empty chamber, devoid of life and sound, save Nathaniel’s panting breaths. He leans against the grimy stone cavern wall, hands on his knees as he tries to catch his breath and organize his thoughts. The others must be close by, he can’t have gone too far from them.

It’s with a slow realization that Nathaniel remembers the maps, the Deep Roads maps he picked up from that loud mouthed dwarf in Hightown, are no longer secure and tucked into their safe place in his arm guard. Nathaniel curses, then curses a second time when he slams his fist against the cavern wall, a sharp pain blossoming in the soft flesh of his hand. This is no time for a tantrum, he tells himself.

He only allows himself another minute of rest before he stands up straight and starts walking. There wasn’t enough time to memorize the map, so he works off of what little he can remember of the tunnels and closed off highways, which isn’t much.

Nathaniel walks for hours, following the winding tunnels and roads until he reaches the next thaig. The air is less musty there, with the cavernous high ceilings and the open room to explore. He takes his time searching the area, looking for any sign of darkspawn, and for any sign of the Wardens he traveled with.

Nothing.

He doesn’t know how long he walks for before exhaustion starts to creep in, reminding him that he hasn’t slept in… who knows how long now. How long has he been walking? Nathaniel finds a room to hole up in, wedging an old stone table against the door to keep any darkspawn out should they come looking.

Nathaniel sleeps. He wakes. He walks.

The cycle repeats.

Again.

And again.

Until he stumbles across the remains of the Warden camp where the attack took place. The camp site is in ruins, packs torn open and trampled, covered in blood. The genlock head is rotting, wearing that same surprised expression when it was separated from its body. Nathaniel salvages what he can: provisions, a mostly whole pack with a bed roll, a clean shirt.

The map is missing still.

And so the cycle continues, Nathaniel retracing his steps back toward the mouth of the Deep Roads in hopes that maybe, just maybe, he’ll find his companions. He walks and walks, left alone with the cavern of his mind, dragging up long forgotten memories of his father, repressed thoughts about this life he… sort of chose. This is not the glorious life he thought it would be, nor is there any honor in running from the darkspawn.

He doesn’t find anything except trouble, or maybe trouble finds him. Hurlocks appear from each direction, forcing Nathaniel to draw the sword he picked up. 

The fight is a blur; he swings wildly, with abandon, striking at the darkspawn as they come at him in a mob of fury and taunts, their sickly sweet blood tainting the air as he fights and fights and fights some more. They’re overwhelming in their numbers, more than Nathaniel realized, and yet he continues to fight them off as quickly as he can, dodging their claws and their teeth. It’s silly, considering darkspawn blood already courses through his veins. He can’t succumb to the darkspawn taint anymore, and still he avoids those clawed fingers of theirs.

He isn’t sure which one it is, just knows that the long knife in their hand is needle sharp as it glints in the firelight, descending upon him at a wickedly fast speed, too fast for the heavy sword Nathaniel carries to combat it. There are no flashes of memories, fond or otherwise, no warning of the end of his life in this stinking pit of bones and blood.

The knife plunges downward, then clatters to the ground as shouts echo through the chamber, voices clamoring in contest with the hurlocks’ weapons. For a moment he believes it to be his fellow Wardens, having returned or caught up with him.

When the final hurlock falls, Nathaniel learns he is mostly wrong. For not all of the people standing before him are Wardens.

Just Anders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took a month to update..... RIP. anyway, back at it again with more nanders


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